Outside the Box
by Estoma
Summary: One shots. Perspectives that are a bit different. The designing of Peeta and Katniss' cave. Clove in the morgue. Brutus and a Capitol lover. A child at District 2's academy for careers. The funeral of a tribute. Glimmer gets changed in front of Marvel. Includes a one-shot written for Ceaser's Palace challenge.
1. Hand of Man

A tangle of grey green weeds gave way to a jumble of boulders. The stream rushed noisily around them, resenting the change of course. However, its path had been drawn out on paper for a year and a half, long before the river was damned and sectioned to make this small stream. In fact the arena had been planned for three years; the gamemakers liked to be organised. For all the world it looked tranquil and natural. Even its designers could not see the careful hand of man.

A man in overalls stamped with the winged seal of the Capitol poked his head out from what appeared to be a tumbled pile of rocks. This cleverly designed cave alone had been weeks in the planning.

"The last camera's in sir!" he called.

Terry Sheer looked up from his contemplation of the stream. Soon the fish would be brought in and he resented it, that his perfect stream would be marred with fish bred so stupid that they could be caught by hand. He started up to meet the technician, stumbling slightly on the rocks. They worked just as he planned. When his heeled boot caught, he flung his hand out to break his fall. A small smear of red was left on the grey rock he touched but at first he did not notice, staring avidly at his grazed palm. Bits of newer, pink skin showed, and a few beads of blood. Rich red, brighter than the wine he had at dinner last night.

Slowly Terry licked his palm, savoring the metallic tang of his own life, closing his eyes. Sometimes it was thrilling to be reminded of his mortality. But when his eye fell on the smear on the rock, already darkening to ugly rust his mood soured.

"Someone clean that up!" he snapped.

In the cave the rocks were cool, taking his body heat greedily when he smoothed his sound hand down one wall. The starched white shirt he wore clung to the skin of his arm pits and lower back. He wished the climate control group wouldn't run tests while others were in the arena. It was uncomfortable but the shade of the rocks was refreshing. Putting his head to one side, Terry admired his work.

This cave had been his particular pet project. Maybe no tribute would ever find it, and maybe his effort would be for nothing. That was a price he had to pay he decided, squatting in the cave mouth. The silk of his trousers strained slightly. Running his hand down the wall again, he felt for the small protrusion of a camera lens. No tribute would see it here. They would think they were alone and hidden entirely. Saliva rushed to fill Terry's mouth and he licked his lips at the thought of what a child might do, secreted in his cave and safe in the illusion of privacy.


	2. Not Asleep

The girl was stretched on the table, cold metal. Her average brown eyes were open and had ben staring at the ceiling for several minutes, unblinking. She had been killed just half an hour ago.

Petra's breath made small clouds of white that lingered around her face. On her arms, goose bumps forced her hair on end but she paid no heed. Five years had taken away her sensitivities to temperatures akin to a fridge. Her time in the morgue had taken away more than that too. Misconceptions for example. Why did so many people assume the dead looked to be sleeping? The only way the dead tributes she worked on could be sleeping is if they were dreaming of their own deaths. In death, faces conveyed the last, fearful moments of life. The girl in front of her, with most of her dark hair escaping a hasty bun, did not look peaceful. Her face was a canvas that showed the fear and pain of her last moments in the arena, and that was without taking into account the dent in her temple.

Petra reached forwards and closed her eyes with a practised motion. Her eye lashes ticked her hand, but Petra was not fool enough to be startled by it. The first time she did it, felt that, she thought maybe the child was still alive. 23 times a year, for four years. This was her fifth hunger games. Clove, District 2, read the plastic tag around the girl's wrist. Petra ran her fingers over the lettering. She would remember Clove, along with the other children, all of them. The clothes Clove was to wear home were the very same she wore to the reaping. A pleated white blouse and a sensible tan skirt that was really very plain. Petra thought it could have been improved by some ruffles sequins. Last time the girl had worn these clothes she was brimming with a sly confidence, now blood was pooling in her extremities, leaving her fingers dark and swollen. Her face was sickly white under the dirt. Corpse white.

Petra got on with her work. It was better now, before the body started to stiffen. It was harder to dress a body whose limbs moved only reluctantly, like a wooden puppet. Sometimes she had a small team; the dark version of a prep team. But she did not need so many, not three for every tribute. Just two young avoxes sufficed. Her aim was not to make the tributes glamorous and beautiful, she only tried to send them home with a semblance of the natural. After all, their families deserved the chance to partake in that particular misconception. Sometimes of course it was impossible, particularly when limbs were hacked off. Pretra resented when the injuries were still obvious. The first year she started working in the morgue, apprenticed to the current curator, was particularly distressing. She had been on a prep team, but when Tigris went into retirement, she was shuffled downwards. At least it seemed that way. That year there was a cannibal in the arena. Petra spent three frustrated hours trying to cover up the place where a bite had been taken from a girl's cheek. At least the gash across her stomach was covered by her dress, though the pierced intestines smelt shockingly. Now her team had been sent home for the night. They were really only needed for the first day, the 'bloodbath' districts called it, or sometimes when the career pack split up. Otherwise she could manage alone. It was more dignified like that. She found from her time on Tigris' prep team that even a nervous, naked child could maintain some dignity. A corpse clothed, even in rags had a sad sort of dignity but a naked corpse did not even have a semblance. The fewer people to witness the better.

Water sluiced off the girl's body, reawakening the metallic tang of blood. It was even under her finger nails. But this was the kind of tribute Petra liked to work with. It was easy enough to conceal the puncture in her upper arm under the sleeve of her blouse. And once the blood was cleaned away from her temple, the misaligned plates of her skull weren't very noticeable. It was only a matter of curling her hair and pinning it in place. When she was done Petra took three paces back, her flat shoes muted on the floor. There was no need for 6 inch heels when there were only avoxes to see. Putting her head on the side and squinting, she smiled. Perhaps, Petra thought, back in district 2, Clove's family could really pretend she was only sleeping. Asleep and dreaming of the lethal arc of fist and rock.


	3. Show Me

**Author's note: Firstly, I now have a beta reader working with me and they are wonderfully helpful. I hope you will notice the improved quality of this as compared to the earlier two chapters in the story. A big thank you to my beta reader who helped me with this. **

Show Me

"Do you want to know why I hired you?" she twisted her hair around her finger as she spoke. It was a nervous habit; when she noticed, she stopped and clasped her hands studiously in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on them. "I caught my husband with Finnick Odair. Terry said he was asking Finnick's opinion on something about the arena. Like that's legal anyway! So I checked the bed, and the sheets smelt like the wrong kind of aftershave. I could deal with Johanna, Cashmere and Enorbria but Finnick was too far."

Selena was younger than him which was a surprise. When Brutus stepped into the limousine he did a double take. For a moment he thought he'd got the car meant for Finnick or Fallon by mistake. Nowadays, most who coveted him were his own age and then some. But Selena was young enough to be his daughter. If he could ever have one. The thought made his eyes smart and he grimaced. Selena clapped her hands, recognising his scowl from the posters. She was wearing a dress that came to her mid-thigh; long for the Capitol. It was a lurid green that made Brutus think of his own arena and the bright, toxic marshes. Maybe Selena did it on purpose.

In the car she made hesitant conversation. At first Brutus thought she was being coy and he did not encourage her. She asked him how he liked the Capitol and he stared ahead at the dark leather seats. When the car pulled up at the restaurant he did not hold the door open for her.

During their first course Selena dropped her spoon into the broth, splashing clear oily liquid onto her dress. Where the droplets landed the fabric turned a darker green. Brutus realised she was only nervous. She seemed just like his niece Cally, when her boyfriend came to dinner. Though if Cally was nervous, the boy was terrified; he kept glancing at Brutus and the knife at his belt. As their plates were cleared away, it became harder for Brutus to remember that she had paid for him.

Once, Brutus went to dinner with a woman whose husband had a house only a block from the president's mansion. The man held the patent for the plates that lifted tributes into the arena. Of course he didn't invent it, he only headed the company. That honor went to an unnamed man in District 3. The inventor would have been lucky to see a fraction of the profits.

By the main course, whole lobsters nestled orange among the crisp sorrel, Brutus found himself cracking jokes to set her at ease. When he reached across the table to crack a claw for her, she blushed. His hand touched hers in passing, both slick with the oily sauce.

"What do you think of the games this year?" he asked her.

"Ooh, they're the best yet…" she inched her hand across the rich red table cloth. They both looked at it. "Except for yours of course."

Brutus drew his shoulders back and ignored the dull ache in his joints. He kept it from his face. When he placed his hand on hers it felt small. He could feel the small bones of her knuckles; there were no callouses there either.

Brutus waited at the table while Selena paid for their meal. He toyed with the table cloth to have something to do with his hands. Usually he caressed his knife when he was nervous, or bored, but he didn't wear it with clients. The knife was the same one that won his games twenty five years ago.  
"Put it on Terry's tab," Selena said cheerily. Coming back to the table, she said under her breath, "The times he took Cashmere here, does he think I'm stupid?"

"He doesn't know what he's missing out on," Brutus said. He surprised himself.

Selena blushed and didn't meet his eye. Brutus didn't see it as he stepped in front of her to hold open the heavy glass door.

The ride in the car to her apartment was quick. Both it and the restaurant were in the city circle. Selena made no effort to look for keys when she got to the door. It opened inwards and a young avox stepped back respectfully.

"Oh go on honey, have a night off," Selena patted the man's cheek as she crossed the threshold. The avox kept his eyes downcast until she was well past. Brutus startled as the door swung partially shut on his shoulder. He was still standing in the doorway.

"Aren't you coming in?" Selena called.

Brutus stepped forwards, not looking at the avox as he passed.

There was a mirror on the ceiling of Selena's bedroom. As they started to undress, Brutus kept catching sight of his reflection. Each time he averted his eyes. Scars stood out white on his chest and forearms though they were years old. His stylist, Tigris, said she could take away the scars but she wouldn't, because they suited his 'look.' When he asked what his look was, Tigris laughed as if it were obvious.

When he touched Selena he had to fight down the impulse to hurt her. Even after twenty five years of this. With his hands on her slim waist, he could push her back against the headboard; crack her skull against the hard, polished wood. Brutus trembled with the effort of restraining himself, and Selena mistook it for anticipation.

"I've never had a victor before," she whispered in his ear. Her underwear matched the toxic green of her dress. And her eye makeup was of a similar shade. "What do we do?"

"Whatever you want." Once his tone would have been different; not seductive like Finnick's, but at least not weary. It was hard to conjure the right attitude with his graying chest hair reflected on the ceiling.

"I hardly get any time for this," Selena said. "But Terry's staying in the control room since it's the final eight."

Brutus made no reply but Selena didn't look for one.

"I loved your games. Watching them live was…exhilarating."

Brutus frowned. He was twenty five years a victor and Selena looked eighteen years old. He shifted on the mattress and his hand reached to his belt. Of course the sheath wasn't there.

"When you killed that boy from District 8…" her last words were muffled against his neck.

When he killed the boy from 8. It wasn't Brutus' first kill, or his last, but it was the first in cold blood. The child was huddled under a scraggly bush; he must have heard the careers coming but hadn't moved. The sensation would never fade from Brutus' mind; how his biceps flexed and the boy's feet drummed against his shins before his neck broke. That trick was his signature, like Enobaria's teeth, Finnick's groin, and Fallon's handmade spears. Brutus taught it to Fallon and Cato at the career academy. Now it was just something expected of District 2's male tributes.

"Would you…show me?" Selena's voice was breathy. It tickled his neck, raising goose bumps on his skin. Right over the last scar he took from the games. They were the kind of goose bumps he got when, in the arena, he heard a rock bounce noisily down the slope and knew the finale was about to begin. And he had the same twisted feeling in his stomach as when he killed that little boy from 8. Brutus' hands fitted either side of Selena's face as if they were designed for it. Up this close, her face was covered in a layer of pale powder. Sweat had broken through, leaving darker patches in the hollows of her cheeks. He didn't know how he mistook her for eighteen. Her cheek didn't feel silky under his hand like he imagined. It was just gritty with powder.

"Go on, show me," Selena urged.

Brutus got up on his knees, catching sight of his reflection once more. The powerful eighteen year old who won the 49th games wasn't gone, only veiled. And Brutus felt him stir.

"What's my image?" he asked.

She blinked. His hands were still on her face, calloused knuckles level with her eyes. There were small clumps of mascara tangled in her eyelashes.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"What is it?"

"Honey, you're a brute. That's what I paid for." Her voice was a little strange from the pressure he exerted against her cheeks. The resemblance to his niece was gone. It shamed Brutus that he had thought it. Cally was a brave girl who died with dignity in the arena. Selena was a jealous wife, desperately trying to look the age of the children who did murder for her entertainment. If she grew up in the districts, she would know that being young was not desirable. She was just a jealous wife getting back at her husband whose motives were probably just as petty. Crouched on her knees with her hands on his belt buckle, Selena was bereft of dignity. So Brutus flexed his arms and showed her.


	4. Moonlight

**Author's note: This one shot is centred on a young girl from District 2 who has just recently gone to the academy to be trained for the Hunger Games. It uses flashbacks from both the two characters. Flashbacks are set in italics and separated by a horizontal line just t avoid confusion. **

** Disclaimer: I certainly don't own the Hunger Games, if I did, I wouldn't be worrying about how I am to pay off my HECs fees. However, the two characters in this are my own, and Fallon will be making a few more small appearances in the future. **

**Again a big thank you to my beta reader. They invest a lot of time into editing my work and I am very grateful.**

Moonlight

Moonlight made a narrow band at the bottom of the window. Standing on her toes, Latite could just see over the sill. Outside, the waxing moon had just topped the mountains in the west. It would already be shining on Flint, a precarious two day drive on a road more suited to goats than trucks and jeeps. Her home village was just a cluster of small houses around one of the quarries. It hardly deserved the title of a village. The stone they cut gave them the name, Flint. Latite grew up with the quarry like her backyard. Though they were warned not to, the children of Flint would clamber about the site whenever the workers, mostly their mothers, fathers, older brothers and sisters, weren't there. Latite held onto the sill until her fingers grew too stiff. Then she let herself down and sat under the window. Moonlight made her brown hair seem silvery. She cried.

* * *

_A muddied jeep pulled up in the main street of Flint. It wasn't a street as such, and it wasn't paved, but there were some houses on either side of the empty space. Children were the first to see it. For the last half hour they had listened to it labour up the track cut into the mountain side. They were used to trucks winding their way up or down, bringing supplies of food and medicine or taking away the cut stone to be polished in the main city of District 2; Marble. A car was another matter. A man and a woman got out of the jeep, stretching their limbs and taking deep breaths. The air was thin and cold. Latite didn't know it, but that was part of what gave District 2's tributes an advantage in the arena. They had been altitude training most of their lives. Even the Career Academy was set up high in the mountains behind Marble. Latite crowded in with the other children but they did not approach the pair. Next to come were the women of Flint who were not at work in the quarries; those pregnant or with babies on their hips. Their tread was not as light as the children, but still quick. Mrs Apelite, who spoke for the women, stepped forward to offer a greeting. One after the other, the strangers in their polished uniforms, all the way from Marble, shook her hand, and nodded their greeting to the other women._

_"Can we get you anything before you start?" Mrs Apelite asked.  
"We'd rather just get started, if you don't mind." The woman answered. _

_There was no need to assemble the children, so the pair simply marched right to the tiny school house. They knew the way; they came twice a year to inspect the children and take away those who showed the most promise in their immature frames. And you couldn't really get lost in Flint, except maybe in the stunted tangles of pine forest that bordered the quarry. The schoolhouse had only two rooms, but it was the biggest room in Flint. The children followed, chattering excitedly. By morning, two or three of their number could be on the way to Marble. In seven or eight years, one might be entering the arena with all of District 2 cheering for them._

* * *

"You were looking back home, weren't you?"

Latite jumped and knocked her head against the wall. Getting to her feet hastily, she scrubbed her hand across her face. It hadn't taken long to learn that the trainers wouldn't tolerate crying, and the victors even less. Brutus had backhanded a boy Latite's age when he saw his eyes looked red. The kid said it was hay fever, so Brutus hit him again. Her efforts only left her cheeks damp and smeared.

"Yes." She mumbled. From where she stood, the man's face was in shadow, but his voice, his stance, were familiar. She would recognise Fallon Lockyer blindfolded in one of the storms that ripped through Flint, one where they were barred from the quarry for days and the stone cracked naturally. Every child in District 2 was required to learn all the past victors' names off by heart and the years they won. Fallon Lockyer won two years ago, the 69th games. He was the first victor that Latite was really old enough to remember, though there had been one when she was two years old, and another the year before she was born. He leant against the window and pulled back the curtains, smiling slightly. The moon painted his dark hair silver also, and it suited the age in his voice.

"I used to want to go home too." He said, then his tone lightened and he laughed, "I actually got all the way back to Flint, but my mother sent me back on the first truck to Marble. She was mad."

"You're from Flint too?" she burst out.

"Sure," he said warmly, "Do you kids still dare each other to climb the Victor's Steps?"

"I did it." Latite said proudly, forgetting herself.

"I bet you did, young career and all." He laughed, "So what's your name then?"

"Latite." She said, then belatedly, "Sir."

He pulled a face, and for a moment she thought she'd angered him somehow. But his tone held a smile. "Just Fallon will do. It's what everyone in the Capitol keeps screaming out every time I go there. What's your surname then?"

"Trail." She replied quickly, swallowing back the 'sir' just in time. Calling him Fallon didn't seem quite right either.

"Latite Trail…" he mused, "You have an older brother, the same age as me, in his twenties, don't you?"

"Aston." She replied fondly.

* * *

_The wind whipped through the quarry and the irregular stones distorted the sound. It hadn't been used for several years; they'd used up all the good stone, but the young careers often went there since it was only a few kilometres from the academy above Marble. This time the eighteen year olds went there to decide who would volunteer in a week's time. Only the boys. The girls had a better way to work things out, but they wouldn't tell. The wind held a touch of ice in it; it always did at this altitude, though there was no snow on the ground at the moment._

_"You know what to do then." Brutus said. He crossed his arms in his thick coat. The boys wore only light clothes for running.  
Fallon shrugged his shirt off and rolled his shoulders. Next to him, Aston did the same. They were the finalists. This time next week, one of them would be standing on the stage. This time in two weeks, one of them might be bleeding out in front of the nation. _

_"Good luck yeh?" Fallon held out his hand. _

_Aston took it in a painful handshake and slapped his back. "Sure thing."  
From the car, Brutus put his fingers to his lips to whistle and the sound was carried away quickly on the wind. But the boys heard. _

_His lungs were burning, but it didn't matter. There was a stitch radiating up his stomach but that didn't matter either. Aston was drawing level, the boy's lighter frame giving him an advantage on the uphill. The race was to the lookout. From the top, on a good day like today, you could see down into Marble, and even the square where the reaping was held. Just before that there was a narrow gap in the rock, wide enough for one only. They were racing headlong to it, maintaining a speed uphill that some wouldn't match on the flat. Fallon glanced to his left, seeing Aston's face set. His was the same. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself harder. _

_The gap in the stone was narrow, jagged. Fallon reached it a heartbeat before his friend. He shouldered in front, fitted himself through. When he missed the scraping of footsteps apart from his own, he stopped._

_"Bastard!" Aston shouted back up at him. _

_Fallon shrugged, "I know. Can you get up?"_

_"Not sure. Aren't you going to finish the race?"_

_"Don't reckon."_

_"Guess we know whose going next week anyway." Aston said flatly. _

_"Guess we do." Fallon shrugged again, "You want some help down?"_

_"Thanks, you shit."_

* * *

_"_We used to be friends." He smiled, "Actually, I was going to get some hot chocolate, did you want some too? You could tell me more about Flint. I miss it."

"You're not sending me back to bed?" her eyes widened.

"I won't tell anyone if you don't."

* * *

_"I won't tell _anyone_ if you don't."_

_This time, it was a girl saying it, only a year his junior; seventeen. _

_"Deal." He agreed.  
Their floor of the tribute tower was entirely silent. Eerie. Their escort had gone to bed at midnight, and most of the mentors were out somewhere, enjoying the Capitol he guessed, at least they went out in suits or evening dresses. Fallon felt around the bar until he found the light switch. It illuminated shelves of bottles, their contents dark amber, warm honey, surreal blue. _

_"What did you want to try?" he asked. _

_Cyra considered, then she pointed. "That one, cause it's bright."_

_Fallon stretched up to take the bottle down by the neck. It was square in his hand. "Bombay Sapphire." He read, fumbling over the unfamiliar words. In the years he was at the career academy his education had been lacking. Five and a half days of physical training and one day of reading and writing. "Sounds far away." _

_Cyra stopped giggling, and his hands paused in opening the bottle. _

_"Far away…" she repeated dreamily._

* * *

With the moonlight playing deceptive shadows over her face, Latite looked familiar. She watched him, head to the side. Fallon rolled his shoulders and his neck. He offered his hand, "So do you like marshmallows, because I always have three."

* * *

_Half an hour later, Cyra leaned into him, whispering. She was a lot louder than she thought and her breath came out as a hot rush against his ear._

_"Know what else I haven't tried before?"  
His eyes widened when she pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it carelessly on the floor. _

_"I won't tell if you won't."_

* * *

Fallon switched the light on and Latitie looked around. Somebody had left the TV on and old games footage played. Latite recognised the year, it was from the 69th games. Light flickered off the wall, rapidly changing as a tribute dodged between boulders twice his height. The sound was off, but she could imagine his firm footfalls and the ragged breathing of his quarry. Fallon crossed the room quickly, turned it off. He looked around at Latite who innocently studied her hands.

"I wish your brother won that race." He muttered

"Sorry?" Latite said nervously.

"Ah nothing..." he turned around abruptly, gesturing to the expansive kitchen, living area. "Like it?"

"You get nicer food than we do." She said reasonably.

"There are a few nice things about being a victor." he stretched up to the top of the fridge and took down a jar. Nobody else would be tall enough to reach without a chair. He held his fingers to his lips. Latite giggled and tried to stop quickly. When he gave her a mug she wrapped her hand around it, feeling the warmth.

"Thanks Aston." Her eyes widened and she mumbled her apology.  
Fallon shrugged and smiled. He almost called her Cyra.

* * *

** Author's note: So did you like that? I hope so. As you might guess, some of these characters are a little close to my heart, so I'd love to know what you thought about them, or if you wanted to see more. The next one shot that I have lined up for the next few weeks features a day in the life of District 2's escort. **

** Also, I am planning on perhaps writing a longer Hunger Games story (one with real chapters and everything). Keep an eye out! **


	5. The Funeral Fleet

**Author's note: This is written for Ceaser's palace's monthly one-shot challenge. The prompt was: Come take a walk on the wild side; Let me kiss you hard in the pouring rain; You like your girls insane; Choose your last words, this is the time; Cause you and I, we were born to die.- Born to Die by Lana Del Ray. It's a lovely forum, you should have a look. This is the funeral of Drift, the male tribute from District 4 in the 74****th**** Hunger Games. I'd really appreciate your feedback. And have a happy new year!**

**The Funeral Fleet**

Gulls cried overhead and swooped gracefully over the funeral fleet. There were fishing trawlers aplenty, but no nets were cast today. Larger boats kept to the outside in the open water, like an albatross must seek open sky to stretch its wings. Smallest, skiffs darted like swallows in any space they could find. But none overtook the leading boat; not even the proud sloops whose sails bellied out like the full moon.

The leader was a wooden trawler in a questionable state of repair. Fitful sunlight, struggling through the cloud cover, caught off its cheery paint; cherry red and crispy lacquered blue. Only the hasty brush strokes around the rails, where red paint had dripped to the deck showed it had been lately refurbished to lead the funeral procession. It proudly led the fleet of thirty strong.  
In the prow, a small party stood, facing into the wind created by their progress. All of them wore an item of black, stark against their normal clothes; chiefly bright colours like the boat. The men, including the captain, wore scraps of black fabric tied about their wrists. Women wore the same in their hair. One was a young girl, and she stood only a pace behind the plain coffin. The coffin of course must always be foremost, especially when it held a dead tribute. In District 4, there was no greater honour for a young man or woman than to enter the games, whether they came out alive or in a wooden box. Glints of the pale sunshine caught in the girl's hair, blown back by the wind. It also dried her tears before they dripped off her chin. Her eyes were not on the open water, but down on the simple coffin that held her brother.

When the trawler's motor was cut and it began to drift gently, Sirri lifted her eyes from the casket. Her mother put both hands on her shoulders and gently pulled her back. Carefully her father lifted the lid of the coffin and the family bowed their heads. Drift's body was wrapped in coarse netting, the same they used to haul in the largest fish; yellow finned and silver bellied tuna. He wore no clothes, as was tradition, but it was impossible to tell. Sirri was glad the netting also covered the wound that ended her brother's life.

Three days earlier, the same sombre group had gathered in the living room of one small house; crowded and noisy with the breathing and movements of so many. The family was granted the day off, a rare leisure, to see Drift start the games. Sirri sat close by her mother, and for the first time she was glad that she had not passed the test and entered the career academy like her brother. She twisted her hands into the rough cotton of her dress and tried not to hold her breath. When the countdown reached zero and the gong rang loudly in the small room, the family stiffened. Drift's uncle, and the captain of the trawler, leapt to his feet; he was a past career and the training died hard.  
Twenty seconds into the games, when the brute from 11 slashed his scythe, the room exploded. The men were on their feet shouting while on screen, Drift dropped in a messy heap; his guts tangling about his feet. Drift's mother screamed as if it were she who was cut. And Sirri remained sitting with her eyes fixed to the screen. She was waiting for her older brother to get up and laugh as he so often did. But this time, he did not. Instead, the camera showed a close up of his face, his eyes wild with pain. Drift's lips were moving, but as much as Sirri strained her ears, she never caught his last words.

Now the sea looked flat and hard, as if it wouldn't open to receive a body. The captain of the trawler conducted a short service for his nephew, fingering the black band on his wrist. The rest of the fleet drew up close to listen to his words, borne on the wind. On each deck, people stood respectfully facing out to sea. They saw no white-caps, only unforgiving, concrete-grey water. Then Drift's father spoke, with a stiff arm around his wife's shoulders.  
"My son trained, he did us proud," he said gruffly.  
When his wife spoke, it was barely audible. Those on closer boats passed back the words to those on the outer.  
"Goodbye Drift, my darling."  
Sirri could only echo her mother, but in her mind she saw her brother alive, and she wanted to tell everyone listening how she would miss him teasing her. If her throat had not closed painfully, she would have told of the time he pretended to pull her under the waves and forgave her when, in her panic, she gave him a blood nose.

The brother and father lifted the body gently and lowered it over the side of the boat; the side that faced the open ocean. The water opened to receive its treasure, closing all too quickly. Sirri strained her eyes but soon there was no sign of the passing. And still the gulls wheeled, dipping lower over the boats in hope of a feed.

Long after the trawler turned for the shore, Sirri leaned over the rail, looking back to Drift's resting place. She remembered the way Drift's nose wrinkled when he laughed and pushed her off the jetty. And she wished she hadn't shouted at him that day. Her tears began again, but the brisk wind dried them to nothing but salt on her cheeks.


	6. You Can Look Now

**Author's note: Written for the Caesar's Palace Valentine's Day Exchange, for MockingjayWithFangs. This is set just after the tribute interviews of the 74th Games.**

You Can Look Now

It was late. Outside the tribute tower though, the party continued; the Capitol citizens were so full of stimulants that they would dance and drink and indulge in pleasures until dawn. When the sun rose, its light unsuitable for their debauched pleasures, they would move their revelry inside, to rooms darkened to their liking.

Inside the tribute tower the party could only be heard as a muted rumble. It did not sound anything like the cities at night back in District 1. Because the items they made were valued, the factories were allowed to close at night, so it was very quiet when the sun set.

Glimmer made her way to her room and stepped inside. The light turned on automatically, highlighting the lavish rugs, the bed that was large enough for three, or four adults. Some of the furniture was made in District 1, using lumber from 7 and plastics from 3. The bed in particular, must have been made from several forest giants, made with four posts and a canopy, in the style of a long forgotten age. She crossed to the wardrobe, taking small steps. Her gown was tight around the knees and ankles. It clung. It was the sort of dress that prevented a woman from running or fighting back. Glimmer had seen several women in the Capitol audience wearing similar designs.

The wardrobe was a room in itself. Shelves and racks lined the walls, reaching as high as Glimmer's eye level. Garments filled every space, from evening gowns to night attire. That was what she crossed to. There was a row of nightgowns hanging a eye level, and Glimmer took out the first. Black satin, barely long enough to cover her arse. She took another; blood red, laced at the front to bare most of her chest. The hanger rattled as she tossed it to the ground. Three more followed. Bronze and black, made all of lace. Blue to match her eyes, barely more than a corset. Emerald green, covering less than a swimsuit. They made a bright pile on the floor. But the last one was the worst. It was of the same sheer fabric of her dress. There was no point wearing it.

She raised her hand to knock on his door. From Marvel's room came a suspicious exclamation. It took him several moments to get to the door.

"Glimmer," he said, slightly breathless, "I was in bed."

She flicked her eyes up and down. The waist band of his boxer shorts was all twisted as if it had been pulled up in haste.

"Can I come in?"

Marvel stepped back to allow her in. Her shoulder brushed his and he felt heat creeping across his face. He kept his eyes on her face, not lower, not where Ceaser Flickerman stared through her interview. Glimmer did not notice; she was already past, and she went to the wardrobe.

"Can I help you?" Marvel asked.

She didn't answer. Her hands ran over suits hung in a row like headless ghosts. She pushed them aside, and the coat hangers screeched on the rack. She turned.

"Can I borrow this?"

It was a plain grey shirt, long enough to fall halfway down her thighs.

"Sure," Marvel said, his voice pitched higher at the end to carry his question.

Glimmer ran the fabric over her hands. She sucked her bottom lip, then stopped quickly; Cashmere said it was an ugly habit. Her eyes were down on the ground.

"It's just, all my clothes are too tight, or too see-through."

There was a mirror that ran along one wall of the room. Glimmer stood in front of it. A girl looked back at her; golden hair piled atop her head, the darkening of her nipples showing through her dress.

"Do you mind?" she snapped.

"Sorry," Marvel turned his face to the wall.

Glimmer sucked her lip again; she had not meant to sound so harsh. She could see Marvel in the mirror; his head was bowed.

As she bent to undo the strap of her gold heel, the dress tore. It made a soft sound, like a sigh, and Glimmer could breathe easier. Her hand reached around to find the rent at her mid back. She let her fingers explore the tear in the soft material. It was not made for real life. It was a sharp reminder that the luxury of the Capitol would soon be a memory. _Her_ real life would begin as tomorrow's countdown ended.

At the soft rustling of Glimmer's dress, Marvel forced his eyes down. He wound the fingers of his left hand with his right and bent them back until they hurt and the blood left them. On stage in her interview, she spoke of how many ways she could kill a person; knife, spear, sword, while the audience slavered over her pert breasts. Marvel tried not to look at her that way, but now he had to dig his thumbnails into his index fingers, leaving deep scores, to distract himself from the throb in this groin.

Glimmer gave a savage tug and the material ripped further. She didn't stop until the dress was hanging in ribbons from its straps. Now light strips hung around her body; they tickled her skin. She shrugged them off and bent to pick up the shirt from the floor. In the mirror, she was Marvel shift his feet, but he did not turn. The shirt dropped from her hand and joined the remnants of the dress on the floor.

"Marvel," she said softly, "you can look now."


	7. A Capitol Party

**Author's Note: Warning, is slightly graphic, and there is a tiny bit of coarse language. Written for Caesar's Palace forum challenge.**

A Capitol Party

At the foot of the tribute tower, and indeed, all through the city, the parties continued through the darkest hours of the night. Spotlights mounted on the tops of towering buildings cast strange shadows down on the revelers. Some of the lights made it appear as if there were patterns of cuts on people's clothes and exposed skin. Others made it look as if they were bleeding. But the Capitol citizens appeared exotic enough even without the ghastly spotlights. Their clothes, hair, even skin, were dyed shades that were not, and should not, be seen in nature. Yellows so garish they hurt the eye, the way looking into the sun does. And everywhere there were flames. Flames patterned onto clothes, skin, cast down by the huge spotlights.

There was not just light and colour, but sound too. The very ground vibrated with the sound of speakers taller than three men on each other's shoulders. They were lined in rows like soldiers. Even standing a block away, you could feel the sound thrumming in your sternum, and it was impossible to talk. Nobody tried.

The speakers also served to block out the sound of screaming. Amid the crowd, so dosed on their party drugs that they barely noticed, a woman burnt. Flames, real ones, licked across her skin and sizzled in her hair. They were not as bright, nor as perfect, as the painted flames on her neighbor's skin, but they burnt with an intensity that could never be captured in paint. They were a thousand red tongues, licking up her shoulder, neck, thighs. Or like cruel fingers, tearing at the skin with red hot nails. Off the woman's shoulders hung the remnants of ruined costume, her pathetic attempt to copy those worn in the tribute parade the night before. She wasn't a girl on fire, she was just a woman burning. People drew aside as she writhed on the ground, some pointing, exclaiming at the clever trick. Not one of them realised that there was no illusion; her skin really was blackening and her hair dissolving to ash.

In complete contrast to the citizens they were charged to protect (and observe), the peacekeepers wore all white. They ringed the crowd, and stood at each corner in pairs. In the changeable light, they looked like ghosts. And though the same patterned spotlights touched them, they did not dance and writhe under them. The patterns passed over the still men.

Davi leaned up against the wall, and he could feel the music thrumming up his spine. He wore ear plugs, so he heard nothing, but the sound was like a sheer force. At times he felt as if he were being pushed further into the wall. It'd been five years since he joined the peacekeepers, and he hadn't been to a party since then. Watching the dancers writhe like snakes in a barrel, Davi's lip curled up into a sneer. He wasn't sure he'd go to another party if he got the chance.

His companion nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. Davi looked the way Mather pointed, and he creased his brow in confusion. Mather pointed again, a lewd grin splitting his wide face. A woman was dancing not far from them, and she was one of the ones who had patterned their skin with flames. It had obviously been a poor job; not tattooed on, only painted, because the flames had run. Now runnels of yellow, orange and red combined with sweat to make an ugly smear on her skin. Most ran down, following the natural curves of her body. The flow disappeared under her skirt, and Davi imagined it painting her pubes a dirty red, and sliding between her cheeks.

Mather nudged him again, waiting for a reaction. It was only when Davi looked even closer that he realised one of the woman's breasts was bare. It swung with her gyrating dance. The left shoulder of her shirt was torn, as if by a sharp fingernail and hung, useless. It looked like tearing more, but she hadn't noticed. Davi nodded to Mather, to say he'd seen it, and the boy grinned again. He really was no more than a boy; it was astounding how he came to be in debt so soon.

Davi leaned back against the wall, but his companion wasn't still. He leaned forwards further, towards the woman who danced on anyway. He mimed closing his hand around something. Davi shook his head but Mather turned away. Davi fixed his gaze on another group; a man with flames, another who wore only a g-string, soaked with sweat, until Mather nudged him again. His companion was grinning, his hand covered in smeared red paint.

It seemed as if some animal instinct took the burning woman. She writhed on the stop, slapping the flames with her hands, tearing at the fabric that melted onto her skin, even though her hands burnt too. Then she ran. Where she was running was unsure, but she left a fiery trail behind her, and an acrid taste in the air. And the fire spread. She crashed into another woman in a dress so long it swept the ground, though most of it had been torn off where someone trod on it. The flames caught the back of the dress, and the woman leant back to see how prettily they burnt. She thought it a clever trick. Until the synthetic material began to shrink, and it melted and clung to her thighs and she felt the heat. She started screaming too, though nobody heard. And the fire spread.

This time it was a man in a cape patterned with flames. They were only fabric, but as the fire caught, for a moment, his cape looked just like the tributes'. And then it started to crumbled and ashes flew free, like dark moths. He spun around, batting senselessly with his hands and fanning the flames. The fire spread again.

Mather was still grinning and Davi still frowning when the first burning woman ran past them. And in the clear space she left, they could see flames. Real flames, hungry beasts with a thousand tongues. As they watched, a woman's headdress lit up like a torch, flames reaching up and up.

"Holy fuck," Davi mouthed, though nobody could hear. Mather was shouting too, but he couldn't read his lips, nor hear a word. His hand reached for his radio. He could see a dozen, maybe more people burning, and the fire was spreading; the synthetic fabrics a perfect fuel. Some went to their knees, some rolled desperately on the ground. One man just kept dancing; the party drugs had dulled his senses, he didn't feel the fire surrounding him like an embrace.

The block was barely recognisable in the cold light of dawn. One of the buildings had caught fire, and the cherry red and sky blue paint had cracked and peeled, hanging off in sheets, or littered the ground. The speakers still stood sentinel and they looked ghostly through the thin vale of smoke. It was all silent now too. The automatic sprinklers had finally cut in when the impromptu stage went up in flames. The sensors had been set to detect smoke; the problem was, synthetic fabric and cooking flesh didn't make much smoke.

Bodies lay where they fell. There were more than twenty of them. Some were curled up, some splayed out, and some contorted and broken by the crowd that trampled them in their haste to escape. Even humans, even Capitol citizens fear real fire when it comes down to it. It took the stage burning, and collapsing, burying the two singers, for most to realise that there was no illusion; there was just danger.

Davi and Mather had escaped, their minds unclouded by the popular drugs. They wandered through the square, not saying anything, even though now they could be heard and understood. Davi kicked aside a forgotten shoe; it was twisted and barely recognisable. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, not daring to look down. That was why he stumbled and pitched forwards using his hands to break his fall. His palms hit something that gave beneath him. He looked down. Both hands had broken the charred skin of a body, male or female, he couldn't tell, only that their clothes had burnt away. They had a new skin now, blacked and crisp. When he pulled his hands away, bits of it clung.

His stomach clenched and he knelt down in the ashes. Acid burnt his throat as he emptied his stomach again and again onto the blackened ground. Even when there was nothing left, he kept dry retching. Mather was doing the same.

They were still like that when an older peacekeeper saw them. He strode through the bodies, watching his feet. Occasionally he stopped to look at one, to see if they could still be alive, but he didn't find any. Davi stood up when he saw the man, and he touched Mather's shoulder to do the same. The younger man ignored him, holding his stomach again.

"How, how many dead?" Davi asked, forcing his voice, raw from the acid, to function.

"That's the fucking joke," the man said.

"The joke?"

"Yeh, the districts will be happy. And the tributes up there."

"Sir?"

"These fuckers here," he said, sweeping his arm across the square, "there's twenty four of them."


End file.
